


hot water on wool

by rizcriz



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, much sad, the self harm isn't really. self harm but better safe than sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2020-01-01 00:23:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18324950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rizcriz/pseuds/rizcriz
Summary: Like the fucking world is doing to him.He steps out of the his pants, and toes off the wet socks. Looks at himself in the mirror again.He’s not—emaciated. Unhealthy. No, he’s just. Pale. Shivering. Even as the steam settles on the edges of the mirror, spreading in. Like a tunnel closing in on him. He lets it. Let’s the steam fill the room, fog the mirror. Let’s himself fade away beneath it, until he’s nothing more than an unrecognizable blur. Then he turns, reaches into the shower. His hand settles beneath the spray.Hot.Hot, hot, hot.Too fucking hot.He—he feels like it’ll set him aflame.





	hot water on wool

Quentin closes the door behind him with a soft click. He doubts anybody will even realize he’s gone again; or wonder why the showers going for the third time today. But he doesn’t want to draw any unnecessary attention. Especially with Margo back, and Alice lurking around the penthouse somewhere. He flips the lock, lets a soft little breath ease its way out of him.

Just has to hold it together for a few more minutes. 

He turns into the bathroom, flipping the light switch, and makes his way over to the shower. There’s still remnants of his shower from earlier; little speckles of water splayed along the inside of the shower curtain. The rug’s still wet beneath his feet, cool dampness seeping in through his socks. He exhales again, leans forward, and rips the curtain open, before leaning in and turning the hot water tab all the way on. His hand hesitates over the knob that has the big blue C on it, before deciding not to bother, and turning away from the shower to undress. 

He can’t help but catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror. If Eliot were here, he’d make some kind of heatless taunt about how Quentin’s just so god awful at taking care of himself. His cheeks have hollowed out, like he hasn’t really eaten in days. And he hasn’t. He’s tried. But the monster somehow has some kind of sixth sense for when Quentin’s in any position to take care of himself.

He pulls his shirt up over his head; it gets stuck on his ears for a half a second, before he yanks it off and he stumbles forward a step. He nearly crashes into the countertop, but catches himself before he can. The world spins, topsy turvy for all five seconds, his reflection dancing in all around him—like he’s walked into a fun house at the circus. Maybe he has. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t recognize himself anymore. Why his reflection’s distorted—beyond unrecognizable. Why his ribs poke out; not just when he lifts his arms up above his head so Eliot can pull his shirt off him—no. Now, they’re just there. Another feature on display.

Steam starts seeping into the room from above the shower, slowly dancing along the ceiling tiles. Like smoke. He lets his eyes fall shut for a moment, imagines sitting in the yard outside the Physical kids cottage before their lives went to shit, before they went to Fillory, before, before, before—just. Imagines sitting there, with Eliot at his side, a cigarette lit, untouched, floating in the air between them. The smell of char and nicotine. Of cedar woods and—

He opens his eyes, inhales shakily. Composure is harder kept like this. 

Looking down, blinking away visions of half drunk smiles and glistening, sleepy eyes, he reaches down to unbutton his jeans. His fingers are shaky, make it uneasy work. Nail gets caught in the loop of the button, catches, snaps. He yanks his hand away, hissing, but it quickly numbs away into nothingness. He tugs at the button again, finally manages to pull it free, and wriggles out of his jeans and boxers in one go. They fall down to his ankles, settle there. The water in the rugs probably spreading—soaking them through, slowly. Like his grief is doing to him. Like the monster is doing to him.

Like the fucking world is doing to him. 

He steps out of the his pants, and toes off the wet socks. Looks at himself in the mirror again. 

He’s not—emaciated. Unhealthy. No, he’s just. Pale. Shivering. Even as the steam settles on the edges of the mirror, spreading in. Like a tunnel closing in on him. He lets it. Let’s the steam fill the room, fog the mirror. Let’s himself fade away beneath it, until he’s nothing more than an unrecognizable blur. Then he turns, reaches into the shower. His hand settles beneath the spray. 

Hot.

Hot, hot, hot. 

Too fucking hot.

He—he feels like it’ll set him aflame. 

He inhales, all shaky and unsure, even though he’s so sure, he’s done this more times than he can count now, and lifts his leg. Steps over the side of the tub, and in. Fire. Fire burns up through the sole of his foot, and he quickly steps in with his other foot and pulls the curtain shut. The water crashes over him; a wave of fire and anger and pain. Every nerve screams at him, urges him to turn the cold on, to get out, to stop, stop—stop. 

But it only lasts a few seconds.

A few agonizing, blissful, wonderfully torturous seconds.

And then it numbs.

Everything settles. Skins’s sensitive, and he’s still surrounded by the too hot feeling of overwhelming pain. Of his nervous system screaming at him that something’s wrong, something’s wrong, get out, get out, go—but he stands still. His back to the shower, water pounding down on him. Like little pin pricks of magma shooting through his every vein. 

His legs give out.

As he falls to his knees, hands reaching out and grabbing at the sides of the tub for purchase. A slow whine works its way up and out of his throat, quiet and broken and not at all about what he’s doing to himself. Nothing to do with the fire searing through him. Not related to the tough, humid air forcing its way in through his lungs, or his hair plastering itself hot and wet to the side of his face. A thick grouping of it clings to his eyelashes, blocks out some of his vision, but he can’t be bothered to move it. 

His hands are trembling, where they’re clutching the side of the tub; knuckles have gone white from how hard he’s hanging on. He opens his mouth, jaw clicking as he stretches it side to side.

And then.

He—

Pushes himself back, falling completely into the spray of the shower, shutting his eyes, and letting it consume his entire body. Icy hot rivers of magma flood down his cheeks, over his pecs and ribs and stomach. Burn down the most sensitive places on his body. Too fucking hot. He pulls his knees up to his chest, wraps his arms around them, clasping his hands at his ankles. 

The tears finally come.

Sting from the inside, crash up against his eyelids, beg to be released. A cooler singe then the one lighting his skin from the outside. 

A sob forms in his throat, clambers up his vocal chords, gets trapped behind his teeth; they’re grinding down, through the pain. Unsure of what to let run rampant first. Unsure of how to let go, really. Giving into the pain is easy.

Letting it go.

Letting it go is like letting go of the hope. 

The tears come first, though. They always do. He opens his eyes, and it’s like opening the floodgates. They blend with the shower water, and the salt disappears beneath the heat, and he can’t tell what’s what. Just that his eyes ache, and his heart is churning, and everything hurts so much, and it’s not because of the fire. The fire anchors him. The agonizing heat turns his skin red but it anchors him. Makes it tangible. Makes it real. Makes what’s whirling in a storm of misery and doubt and fear inside him—

Makes sense of it. 

And.

It keeps them from—

From hearing.

The choked off sobs that wrack his ribs and choke off his lungs. The whispered, “ _ Fucking worthless, Quentin. He needs you—look at you. _ ” Despairing and angry and self hating beneath the shower, with water dripping from his lips, mixing with the snot and tears and whatever else his bodies saying goodbye to. It’s like. Having the abyss key, but at his disposal, and of his own control. Like his depression weaponized a memory.

No.

It’s weaponized all his memories. 

He hugs his knees tighter to him. The water pressure softens—probably somebody in one of the other bathrooms—turns ice cold for a moment, and then slowly seeps back into the soft heat of magma. Flows down his skin like it’s traced the perfect path to singe him. He tries to fight off the hazy memories of a life he never lived, but they come in like a wave, settling over real memories like islands. Covering them with sand, and telling them this is who he is. Who he should be.

But he can’t be. Because Eliot—

Another low whine, hearty and full and open.

The voice at the back of his head calls him a coward. For still desperately needing someone who turned him away at the first sign of it all becoming real. For someone who said—who said.

_ “That’s not me, and that’s definitely not you. Not when we have a choice.”  _

Who’s trapped in his own mind, probably stuck reliving their lives together. Dreading every memory that washes ashore, like Quentin does, but so different. So fucking different. 

But he’d said something else. Something tangible. Something good.

But it didn’t matter.

It didn’t fucking matter.

It doesn’t. 

That’s what the voice at the back of his head says— _ screams. _ Bangs pots and pans and yells at all hours of the day and night. It doesn’t matter. People are dying. People are dying, and Quentin’s never going to get Eliot back, even if they manage to exorcise the monster, because Quentin never really had Eliot. Not really. Not in a way that matters. Not if he had a choice. 

_ “Why can’t I love anyone right?”  _

It comes out broken, a shuttered off plea into the shower that can’t be heard above the pounding of the water. 

_ “Why aren’t I good enough?”  _

_ “Why do I try?”  _

They come one after the other in quick succession. Leave him no room to think them over, to answer. 

A dangerous thought dances along the edges of his mind. Hides beneath the tears and the fire and the memories. Seeps into his veins, and up through his heart, which beats erratic and painful in his chest, like it’s searching for something to sync up to, but can’t find the right station. Can’t find the only other beat that’s aligned perfectly with it.

_ “I can’t do this.”  _

The shower curtain slides open. And he knows who it is without even looking. The door’s still closed, locked. Steams still crowding in on him, clinging to his skin like it’s trying to become a part of him. There’s no gasp or shock. He can’t even find it in himself to really react when he does look. His eyes slide up, along the long coat that Eliot would never wear, stutter on the graphic tee that Eliot would set on fire before even touching, and then settles on the face. 

He squints, water clinging to his eyelashes.

And the monster tilts its—Eliot’s—head. 

“Quentin,” It says, in that same cool, bored tone it always has. “You are red. Red like blood. Have you finally come around to killing people we don’t like?” 

“Please go away.” 

It slowly moves until it’s kneeling. It uses Eliot’s hands to steady itself, holding onto the side of the tub. Quentin barely registers the water slowly cooling, too focused on the lack of rings on the hands clutching the side of the tub. Just another reminder—he shakes his head and looks back down at his feet. Focuses on the water pooling at his feet. Tries to will the monster away. 

But of course. “Quentin. You are my friend. Even if you are mean to me. Sometimes.” One of the ringless hands reaches into the tub and settles over Quentin’s hands locked around his ankles. It almost stings—his skins so sensitive, still singing, and the monster settles Eliot’s hand heavily on top of it. “What . . . Is wrong?” 

Quentin frowns, looks up at him again. “If I say  _ you _ will you finally leave Eliot’s body and ruin someone elses life?” 

“You do not mean that.” 

“No. I do. I do mean it.” He’s shaking again—though whether it’s from the cold piercing his back and front, or from the anger bubbling up beneath it all, he’s not sure. 

He can’t  _ do _ this. 

The monsters hand slides up his calf, to his knee. Settles there. Brings with it a wave of memories of the same hands, speckled in gold and silver, fleshy warmth contrasted by icy metal, following the same path. But he can’t make himself move. He’s too tired. Too sore. Too sick of it all. 

“You . . . Are sad.” The monster squeezes Quentin’s knee, “I made a new friend. She was also sad. I can make you. Feel? Better.” 

“How? By breaking  _ me?” _ Like the fucking airplanes. Like the rest of the world. Like innocent fucking ice cream workers just trying to live their lives—

Like Eliot.

“No.” It watches him for a long moment, before leaning up, crowding in on him. The hand on Quentin’s knee moves up, slides over Quentin’s bare chest, until it can twist over his shoulder. The glides of the hand is familiar, almost, as it skitters over Quentin’s skin, and he can’t help but let his eyes slide shut at the feel of it.  “It is called a  _ hug.”  _

Quentin sniffs, ignores the wrong, wrong, wrong scent that comes in with it, as the monster brings its—Eliot’s—other arm around. All hickory and iron and none of the cedar and cherries. None of the special shampoo that Eliot uses to lather in the air around them. Even as the monster moves in, leaning over the edge of the tub, finger tips grazing against Quentin’s skin, the hair is too rough, too unkempt. The grip too firm, too sure. The hands don’t travel far beyond their place on Quentin’s back. It crowds over him, blocks the icey water from hitting his skin. 

A shiver works its way up Quentin’s spine, and he exhales shakily. 

He doesn’t move. Tries to pretend it’s the water and the steam and the shower that’s making it all wrong.

Tries to make himself swallow all the wrong down and let it be okay.

“Are you all better now?” 

But it’s not okay.

He nods, anyways, in the desperate hope that the monster will let him go. Let him go so he can go get dressed and go back to his friends and pretend he isn’t about to fucking combust if he doesn’t set himself on fire first. He opens his eyes, lifts his head--hadn’t realized he’d let himself get so comfortable as to rest it on the monsters shoulder when he leaned in--and says, “Much.” 

He doubts the monster will notice it’s choked off and a lie. 

Mercifully, it doesn’t. And it only holds on for another moment before pulling away and looking down at him. His eyes are--It’s like that day in front of the mosaic. Turning and finding Eliot asleep, only he wasn’t asleep. It’s like the monster has all the death and life in the world dancing around in it’s eyes and neither side can win. 

“Hugs are very useful.” The monster smiles it’s not quite empty smile--filled with mirth and danger and nothing of Eliot can even be traced to it. 

Quentin looks up into its eyes, watches it for a long moment. He can’t help it, when his hands unclasp from each other, and he reaches up with one to cup his cheek. Can’t help looking from eye to eye, desperate to find something _ \--anything-- _ that signifies Eliot’s not gone. Even if he can’t have him. Even if he’s lost him forever. He needs to know the world hasn’t lost him. Needs to know that this wasn’t all for nothing. That he hasn’t let people die for nothing. 

“I don’t think you can imagine how much I miss him,” He murmurs, soft. His voice is hoarse, and only every other syllable even makes it out above the sound of the water. “How much I hate you.” 

“You are being mean again--” 

Quentin’s hand drops, because there’s nothing there, and he looks down. “You don’t understand. Nobody understands.” He shakes his head, a humorless laugh forcing its way out, looks back up at it. “Nobodies even asked.” 

“Asked what?” 

He’s tempted to say it. 

But he turns, just enough to turn the water off. “Nothing.” He twists back around, feels the steam and condensation settle in around him as ice cold water drips down from his hair and down the front of his chest. “Don’t worry. I’m going back to researching. I just needed a shower.” 

The monster almost looks hesitant for all of a half a second before it stands up. “Good. We have many people to visit, and so very little time. I’ll let you dress yourself.” 

And then it’s gone.

“Thanks,” Quentin mutters to the empty room, not at all thankful. 

He sits in the tub for a few moments longer. Stares blankly at the edge of it, where it meets the wall. Remembers a different tub, lets the images run together for a long moment, of medieval and modern, mashing together. Of two sets of legs tangled together, and lets himself pretend the stinging on his back is the gentle warmth of a body leaning up against his. 

Almost hears a familiar laugh, breathy and warm up against his ear. 

His eyes fall shut, head tilting forwards, chin tucking up against his chest. Can almost feel the butterfly touch of Eliot’s lips dancing along his skin in the same pattern--never predictable, but always memorable--down his jaw, his neck, his shoulder. Can practically feel his hand, still covered in rings, even when they’re bathing, slinking down into the water--

_ “That’s not me, and that’s definitely not you. Not when we have a choice.”  _

His eyes snap open. 

He finds himself staring at a perfectly normal tub,  his feet pushed up against the far wall of it. He clenches his jaw, and looks around, forces down the lump in his throat. Nearly jumps when there’s a pounding at the door, jagged and angry--

“What the fuck are you doing in there? Jesus Christ, I have to piss and Penny’s hogging the upstairs bathroom!” 

“Just--” He clears his throat, scrambling to his feet, nearly slipping in his haste, “Just a--a minute!” 

“You’d better not be jerking off in there, Coldwater!” 

He sighs, stepping out of the tub, and ignoring the blurry reflection of him in the mirror, desperate to hide from it all until he can get away again, grabs the towels on the countertop and wraps it around his hips. He picks up his clothes, careful, sighs again becuase his jeans and boxers are soaked thouroughly, and hugs them close to his chest as he unlocks and pulls the door open. 

He expects her to shove him aside. 

But she stops. 

And for a moment, he thinks she’ll ask.

“Jesus, you look like shit.” 

She rolls her eyes, and moves around him, lets him shuffle himself out of the bathroom, before she closes the door in his face. It says a lot that he stands there, holds out hope, until he hears the tell tale sign of the lock on the door clicking. 

He stares at the door for a long, aching moment, before turning on his heel, and quietly following the hallway to the guest room to change. 


End file.
